Pipe Blowing Smoke
by HetaWriter - HetaReader
Summary: On a hot day, Spain feels a sense of deja vu when the Netherlands comes to visit him. He then reminisces how the young nation who once spit on him became the quiet country he was today. He honestly thought he hated him, but more than anything, he was actually the closest friend he ever had. Open interpretation of NethSpa, rated T just in case.


_HetaWriter/HetaReader here; still gonna try and update all of my fics, but honestly, the time of the updates will be random because of my life. XD I'm actually back to writing HetaVoice, but I want to make two chapters to make up for the extensive time of holding it up and not warning people that it was on momentary hiatus._

_Anyway, to get my writing skills back, I stumbled upon a Hetalia Pairing Generator on DA. Obviously, I had to use it, and this was my result!_

_- Type: My choice. (Chose Country x Country)  
- Setting: A hot day.  
- Rating: Friendship  
- Object: My choice. (Chose Pipe - because it's the Netherlands. XD)  
- Country 1: Netherlands/Holland  
- Country 2: Spain_

_I'm honestly starting to like the pairing NethSpa, but this is a friendship fic, apparently; up to you lot though - it's open to interpretation. XD_

* * *

Spain gave a sigh of relief as he dropped the last tomato into the thatched basket at his feet. He raised and arm and wiped the sweat that slowly slid down from the side of his head as he gave another exhale.

_'Ay Dios mio!'_ the nation thought to himself as he held the front of his shirt and began flapping it front and back to allow the hot air inside to seep out with the heat. _'Today is so hot! I feel like I'm going to melt at any minute now!'_

He wiped his hands on his shirt, only to discover that his shirt was now becoming wet from the sweat that had gathered from his flaming body. Wincing, he peeled the shirt off of his worn body and wiped his hands on his clothed thigh, feeling the heated air start to crinkle against his tanned skin. Honestly, Spain wasn't surprised if his skin was going to be several shades darker once he was through with picking his tomatoes.

_'Why is it so hot, anyway?' _he wondered to himself as he sluggishly forced his dead weight of a body to carry the basket of tomatoes inside his home.

As he gazed up at the sky, he saw that even the sky was suffering from the heat - it looked much more wavier; as if it was trembling from the high temperature as the sun was shining mercilessly down, scorching everything underneath it. Spain fixed the straw hat atop his head as he continued trudging back to his home.

It was on his way however, that he passed by the flower garden, which was not a long way away from the tomato fields, and saw a familiar head full of spiky, blonde hair, knelt down.

Here, Spain stopped and squinted his emerald eyes, finally realizing who the person was after catching a wisp of white-grey smoke billowing up to the torched sky, and eventually dissipating with the heated air. "Oh! _Holanda!_" the country of passion called, trying to form a smile on his face, only to realize that his face felt just as exhausted as his body.

The Netherlands inwardly sighed as he shut his eyes - honestly, he wanted some peace and quiet from inside. Romano was causing a racket as he demanded for some food, and like hell, the spiky-headed blonde was going to cater for a spoiled, screaming child who seemed to only accept Spain's cooking, his sister's hugging, and head butting France.

Speaking of France, he had decided to drop in and randomly visit . Belgium was actually trying to both comfort Romano; to assure him that Spain was coming back soon to cook, and have a proper conversation with France at the same time.

Much to Netherlands' shock; France and Belgium seemed to get along really well. Of course, he was highly suspicious that the Frenchman had ulterior motives with talking to his little sister, but after more close watches, he was reluctant to admit that really, though France found Belgium a beauty (he even admitted it to Netherlands' face), he wasn't currently interested in pursuing her romantically. Rather, he preferred having conversations that involved fine culinary cuisine and more cultural aspects.

"Besides, _mon ami_," France said with a wink. "You are more my type - with your muscular stature and high cheekbones. _Ohonhonhon_~"

He honestly didn't know whether or not France was joking, but the spiky-headed blonde swore he swallowed some of his own vomit upon hearing such a sentence.

So that was basically why he was out here right now. He felt more comfort immersing himself with the company of the flora outside than with the company of other nations.

Of course, when he first came outside, he was shocked at the heat slamming right in his face and how quickly sweat began to gather on his forehead.

He had discarded his over-shirts and the little piece of armour he sported earlier that day, and was left wearing a loose, cotton undershirt as well as just his trousers.

Much to Spain's surprise though, the blonde was still sporting his scarf despite the noticeable lack of clothes. It contrasted well against his skin - the silky, well-knit indigo and white against his pale, porcelain skin.

_'Or maybe it's not that surprising,' _Spain thought to himself, a smile now forming more easily on his face after remembering that when he had first found the scarf, he refused to take it off for a while.

"What?" the Netherlands asked bluntly as he raised a hand to wrap his index fingers around the end of his pipe. "You need something? You look like shit."

Spain inwardly sighed as he chuckled nervously; maybe that's where Romano got his foul language from. But when he thought of that notion, the country of passion remembered that the little Italian used foul language _before _he even met the Netherlands and his sister. He then shrugged, "Well, I'd definitely like your help; can you help me bring the tomatoes inside, _por favor_?"

The response the brunette got was a glare from pale green eyes that were narrowed to the size of poison darts. The Netherlands didn't even turn his body around fully; his head simply moved in a slight angle, the pipe still jutting out from his mouth.

Honestly, if looks could kill...

"Fine."

Spain blinked, unsure if he heard right. He saw that the Dutchman was using his big palms to lever his large body up while his legs wobbled slightly as his body began to support its weight. The blonde made his way over to the brunette and offered his hands out before him. "_¿Qué?_" he asked again, still confused.

The Netherlands rolled his eyes as he snorted, "I said fine. You want help carrying your tomatoes or not?"

The country of passion paid no heed to the Dutchman's blunt and sharp tone, and his smile grew wider, if possible. "_Muchas gracias, Holanda_!" he chirped as he stretched his arms out and gave him the basket filled with tomatoes.

The blonde simply grunted as he took the basket out of the Spaniard's hands; pipe still miraculously balanced in his mouth. He didn't seem to pay much regard to his discarded clothes on the grass as he brought the thatched basket inside.

Spain simply gave a light chortle and the Dutchman's conduct and knelt down as he began picking up blonde's clothes from the ground. He looked up in time to see the Netherlands' back one last time before he disappeared inside.

It was funny how he was just a teenager in his low to mid teens when the tanned nation first met him and had him under his rule - before he knew it, he was no longer that young anymore; he was practically towering over Spain himself and he was gaining more muscle as the days wore by. He also began spiking his hair to the point that everyone forgot that his dirty blonde tresses were once matted down.

He still wore that scarf, though.

And the wisp-like smoke from his pipe was still billowing evenly, melding with the heated air.

Many years had run by as the seasons continued to change. Spain had seen and experienced so much during that time and a few times, he was practically overwhelmed.

Right now, he was all alone as he began picking his tomatoes again. It was an extremely hot day that day, much like the one many, many years ago, but to Spain, it felt much worse.

He was honestly getting more worn out as the days continued to walk on by, and he would rather lie down and take a _siesta _most of the time nowadays. He gave a soft chuckle as he picked the last one of the plump, red fruits and gently dropped it into the worn, thatched basket. He bent down even more as his hand settled around the basket's edge; fingers brushing against the thatched surface.

"Still picking tomatoes, I see."

Spain almost jumped out of his skin upon hearing the deep, yet familiar, suddenly cut through the hot and humid air. The tanned nation turned his head around to come face-to-face with a pair of pale green eyes observing him jadedly.

The Netherlands breezily stood there, his posture straight while one of his legs was bent across the other. One of his arms was crossed over his chest and rested onto the eave of his elbow while the other was coming up to pick the cigarette that was sticking out of his mouth. Using his middle and index fingers, much like how he did with his pipe all those years ago, he took it momentarily out from his mouth and exhaled a great cloud of wispy, grey-white smoke.

"_Holanda_! What are you doing here?" questioned the Spaniard in great surprise, his hand frozen in the spot.

The blonde Dutchman said nothing as he carefully tapped close to its burning end; allowing the grey ashes to sprinkle to the ground like snowflakes that the Spaniard wished would drop from the blazing, blaring sky right now.

Spain felt that same awkward bout of silence after first asking the Netherlands questions or requesting him to do a favour. He wracked his brain to try and think up of a proper way to start a conversation with him, when the blonde chose to speak before his mouth opened:

"Need some help?"

"_¿Qué?_"

The Netherlands rolled his eyes as he took a drag from his cigarette. "I asked you already," he said tonelessly. "Do you need some help? You becoming deaf, idiot?"

Spain blinked again as he saw the Dutchman extend his large hands out in offer.

"Just give me the basket and go take one of your...whatever you call it..._fiesta_?"

The tanned nation laughed at the blonde's mistake as he carefully extended his fatigued arms and gave him the basket filled with tomatoes. "It's called a _siesta_, _Holanda_."

The Netherlands simply rolled his eyes again in response, as he took the basket from the Spaniard's grasp, "Whatever." And he began heading towards Spain's humble abode.

For the moment, the country of passion forgot that it was a heated day with unpleasant, humid air that squeezed at the very pores of his skin and caused the sweat to slide down the sides of his head. As his eyes settled onto the Dutchman's back, he began to remember all those years ago when the blonde grew from a young, ill-tempered teenage boy to the more serious and mature man walking before him today.

It was like watching a roll of film where slow motion was utilized as a technique.

First, Spain could see that young boy - his dirty blonde hair was down and he was quite short. As he turned his head around to look at him, his face was still present with baby fat, but it was already becoming lost due to the progressing years of adolescence.

"_Hola_! My name is Spain!" the tanned nation had beamed his sunlit smile as he bent down slightly when they first met, to go on level with him. "I'll be your boss from now on, so you can just call me that! Boss!"

He remembered that he was met with no response.

"Um...are you okay?

He was met with a shot of spit making contact between his eyes. The Spaniard was in disbelief that someone so young was capable of doing such a disrespectful notion, but could see, after he wiped the messy saliva from his face, the burning flames that resided from within the younger nation's pale green eyes.

_"I **hate** you."_

It took a while for the young Netherlands to settle down, but Spain could see that despite those flames of fury and resolve that were still burning in the young nation's eyes, they were progressively fading away the longer he spent at the tanned nation's home.

Back at present, the visage of the Netherlands began to change before him; height getting stretched as he progressively grew taller, his scrawny limbs gathered more muscle, and his hair started to fly up into the spiky style he was known for today.

Spain was heavily surprised upon seeing that the Dutchman was no longer a boy; he had grown so quickly before his eyes, and was now standing at a height greater than him. His face grew long with high cheekbones and the baby fat was now non-existent. He was also much quieter and more impassive; sometimes the tanned nation had trouble with determining how the Dutchman truly felt back then.

At first, Spain thought that it because he was still adjusting to his sudden growth from a child nation to a much more adult one, but after a while, he noticed that that probably wasn't the reason since a considerable amount of time had passed when the Netherlands had grown. Yet, he was still quiet, reserved and had a scowl ever present on his face.

And for a while, Spain actually thought that having the Netherlands around was probably why Romano had an ever present scowl on his face, too.

The brunette remembered seeing the blonde outside in the flower garden, on his haunches as he stared at the scene before him. A myriad of vibrant colours splashed out vividly, yet at the same time, melded perfectly with each other. Spain had gone around travelling and brought a bunch of seeds as well - there were roses from France, edelweiss from Austria, corn poppies from Prussia and even England had allowed him to take some of his own rose seeds despite the bumpy and begrudging relationship the two shared.

And because his presence was known, Spain had quietly crept closer and was greatly shocked at seeing a small smile form upon the Dutchman's face as his pale green eyes were fixated with the flowers.

It surprised Spain that the Netherlands liked flowers, but that was probably why he went out one day and returned with a bag of seeds in his hand. He offered it to the blonde whose scowl furrowed even deeper on his annoyed face.

"What are these supposed to be?"

"Tulip seeds," the tanned nation said with a smile. "I thought you'd like to grow some in the garden."

The Netherlands said nothing, but took the small bag, nonetheless.

The next time Spain went to the garden, he saw that there were loams of fresh soil that looked as if they were recently dug up. Before he knew it, he saw tulips spreading out around the garden; adding their own variety of colour to the palette of flora.

The Dutchman took great and particular care while tending with the flowers; he came over at least once each day and watered them accordingly, as well as eliminating the wild weeds in a careful, calculated manner so as not to accidentally uproot one of the precious flowers.

It made Spain smile to see this side of him.

It did worry him though, that he barely spoke as the days wore on by.

But the reason why he didn't speak much as time passed on was answered one faithful day.

Spain remembered he was out of breath on one side with Belgium alongside of him as they fought against the myriad of soldiers around him and his own. He remembered trying to wound them and wear them out, but at the same time, not take away a life. Despite all he'd been through, the Spaniard couldn't bring himself to kill.

He recalled hearing the screams, the war-cries of both Spanish and Dutch dialect, and the gunshots that shattered the air.

He remembered seeing people's faces twisted into ugly expressions as they snarled and sprinted towards each other, ready to maim and annihilate.

But most importantly, he remembered the spiky-headed blonde who mercilessly attacked anyone who went in his way.

How he had changed. His face was no longer impassive or indifferent; instead that mask was off and it revealed a face filled with fury and determination. His pale green eyes were huge, blazing infernos that radiated obstinacy, pride and a great resolve for the bearer's goal.

There was also a drop of blood that slowly trickled down from the fresh, vertical scar located above his right eye on his forehead.

"You still hated me until the very end, huh, _Holanda_?" Spain asked in a deadly quiet whisper during the final time they clashed in the war-torn fields. He was on his back, and at the Dutchman's mercy.

No response.

"You always never responded to me properly, either," the brunette laughed bitterly. "You still do."

Much to his surprise, the Netherlands grunted, his pale green eyes narrowed dangerously, as he spat a single word at the Spaniard's face.

_"Idiot."_

As he made his way back to his celebrating men, the Netherlands spoke one last time in four words. Those last four words to Spain were spoken in that same, gruff and blunt tone, but they had shocked his very being.

_"I **never **hated you."_

Now here Spain was, in his home and on his old, leather couch as the same Dutchman was poking at the wood in the fireplace with the steel poker, causing the flames to settle their hunger and burn brilliantly. He was lying on his back and simply watched as the Netherlands made his way to the couch and plopped himself next to it.

"You didn't have to do anything for me, _Holanda_," Spain said earnestly.

The spiky-headed blonde snorted, "You don't tell me what to do." He then took another drag from his cigarette as he freely picked it out from his mouth and unleashed another white-grey cloud in the room.

It was at this instant that Spain gazed right into the taller man's eyes.

They were pale green pools that still blazed with a fire, but the fire that burned from within them bore no more resentment or determination. Instead, they were filled with a light of life and a burning stubborn streak.

Again, Spain couldn't help but wonder where the years had gone; how he had grown and become so independent and able to take care of himself in a short time (at least to the Spaniard, anyway).

"Want some coffee?"

Spain blinked, snapped back to reality at hearing the Netherlands' gruff, toneless voice cut in. "¿_Qué_?" the country of passion asked in confusion. "_Lo siento_, I mean! I'm sorry. Could you repeat yourself again?"

The Dutchman snorted as he gave an exasperated sigh, "You're hearing really sucks now, is that it? Seriously, you should clear your ears. I was asking if you wanted some coffee - I was gonna make some for myself, anyway..."

"Oh! Oh, _si_!" piped up Spain with a bright beam. "I'd love that! _Muchas gracias_!"

"Just shut up and rest yourself already."

And with that, the blonde picked himself up from the couch as he flicked some more ash off into the ashtray conveniently near the couch's arm. He then laid his hands in the pockets of his coat as he made his way to Spain's kitchen, taking another drag on the cigarette.

A cloud wispy, grey-white smoke billowed softly in the now cooled down air.

* * *

_And there you have it. I know, this is most probably historically inaccurate, but please, just roll with me; I never was a history buff. XD_

_Anyway, thoughts and opinion? I hope you have a pleasant day. :DDD_

_Sincerely,  
HetaWriter/HetaReader_


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